


the way thirst holds water

by midrashic



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mile High Club, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Erik Lehnsherr, Trans Hank McCoy, X-Men: First Class Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midrashic/pseuds/midrashic
Summary: "I'm not hiding," Hank said.Erik laughed, like rusty bells jangling. "McCoy, you'realwayshiding."
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Hank McCoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: X-Salon Trans Appreciation Week





	the way thirst holds water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [librata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/gifts).



The Blackbird had a great many wonderful features, one of which was an autopilot, and another one of which was a relatively spacious bathroom, as these things went, at the back of the plane. Hank scrubbed his face with water, hating the new texture of it, but his head jerked up at the sound of the door sliding open. “It’s occupied--!” he started to call, but froze as someone slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Erik. Of course it was.

Erik looked at him with his cold, luminous eyes, and then slowly, deliberately, swept his gaze down, from Hank's mane to his bare… paws, he supposed, flexing against the floor of the jet. He'd had to hack away at the flight suit he'd made for himself, cut off the fabric just below the elbow and above the knee as his calves and forearms were now too thick to fit into the breathable, but not very flexible, fabric. Hank felt his teeth bare in a snarl, hating it, hating every aspect of it—he was so _animalistic_ now, a true Beast. He hadn't wanted to hurt Erik in the hangar, but Erik had touched him and he had just—fire had surged up in him and white had fallen over his vision like a curtain, and when he'd blinked back to reality he'd had Erik, gasping and wriggling, by the throat. He’d often wanted to kill Erik, but a civilized person—a _human_ person—battled down their hatred, smiled and pantomimed and absolutely did not _attempt murder_. 

(Other times, he had wanted to—well, it was impossible now, wasn't it? For who could ever learn to love a Beast?

The way Erik was eyeing him now was certainly not, by any sense of the imagination, _love.)_

"Admiring yourself?" Erik said, languid, insouciant.

"You shouldn't piss me off," Hank said through his fangs. God, his _fangs_. That was something else he didn't want to think about.

"Why?" Erik asked. "Because you might pick me up and strangle me again?"

"Among other reasons."

"We have a little time for another attempted murder before we have to go fight," Erik said, smiling, that serpentine smile that made shivers—not always unpleasant shivers—crawl up and down Hank's spine. "Care to try again?"

 _Goddamnit, Erik, why are you_ here? This was the very last thing Hank needed. Erik, with his infuriating confidence, Erik, with his icy poise, Erik, who thought that everyone should think exactly like him--Erik _got under his skin_ , had done long before he had grown fur, and, paradoxically, became much thinner-skinned. "I thought you'd be psyching yourself up to see Shaw again," Hank said, and when shutters fell over Erik's eyes he instantly regretted it. He'd seen the numbers on Erik's forearm; Erik never tried to hide them, wore them with as much pride and challenge as anything else about him. "Erik, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. And I'm fine," Erik said. " _I'm_ not the one hiding in the bathroom."

"I'm not hiding," Hank said.

Erik laughed, like rusty bells jangling. "McCoy, you're _always_ hiding."

It happened again. Fire surging up his spine, white falling over his vision like a curtain. When it pulled back, he had Erik crowded against the wall of the bathroom, his claws fisted in the collar of his flight suit, gripping so hard that the ultra-thick kevlar might actually tear. Erik was smiling, like this was exactly where he wanted to be. "Go on, Hank," he coaxed. "Show me who you really are. _Unleash the beast_."

"You have no idea what it's like!" Hank snarled, the new tenor of his throat making it a guttural, harsh sound. “You have no idea what it is to—to _walk around_ feeling like everyone can see through your skin—you have no idea what it’s like to not be able to get close to someone—”

“Don’t I?” Erik asked, dangerous and hard as silk rope. Erik, with his masculine beauty, Erik, with his invisible mutation, Erik who—

—who ground his hips against Hank’s thigh—

—and Hank froze at what he could feel there. Rather, what he couldn’t.

“What,” Hank rasped.

And Erik smiled, that impertinent, lethal smile, and said, “Looks like we have more in common than you thought.”

“Why did you never—” Hank began to rage, and Erik hushed him, didn’t need to put his fingers on his lips to shut him up, had him under his thrall effortlessly, the way he did Charles, the way he did Raven. He was still pinned by Hank’s bulk, but in total control, and he smiled in that particular anxiety-inducing way he had to make sure Hank knew it. 

Erik leaned forward, whispered, “You never asked,” and—

—and kissed him—

_What the fuck?_

Hank jerked back. “What the fuck?” he asked, because those seemed to be the only words his genius brain was capable of forming right then. “I mean— _what the fuck?”_

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” Erik hissed, and then kissed him again, with force this time, and Hank’s grip slackened on Erik’s collar as he gaped—but Erik took advantage to lick into his mouth, and Hank suddenly forgot every reason this was a bad idea and was reliving every furtive dream he’d ever had about Erik, every moment of heat when Erik brushed against him, every longing to touch that he hadn’t been able to suppress.

Erik crowded closer, the heat of his body muted through the temperature-resistant fabric of the flight suit, but Hank’s hand— _paw,_ a disgusted part of him that couldn’t stop dwelling on how small Erik must have looked next to him, beauty beside the beast—drifted up to the side of Erik’s neck and felt the warmth _there,_ as Erik’s breath skittered over his lips ( _maw_ ). “Come on,” Erik hissed; a fanatical light had settled in his eyes. “Come _on,_ Hank, show me that strength, show me that power, show me _you_ , raw, stripped-down, animal, _bestial_ —”

Hank roared, unmindful of whoever was behind the door. He tried to tear into Erik’s flight suit, but— _ha!_ the material was too well-built for that—the triumph of the mind, in this arena, at least—and Erik laughed softly, just a breath of amusement, before he brought his hands up and began unzipping the suit. 

He shrugged off the bright, durable fabric and at once Hank’s mouth went dry. Wrapping around his chest, keeping his breasts tightly bound to his body, was a neat set of bandages. But what drew Hank’s eye was the curve of his waist, which he must have concealed with artfully draped shirts and jackets, leading down to a boyishly narrow pair of hips. Erik grinned wickedly, as though he knew what Hank were thinking, and stepped out of the legs of his flight suit. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

“What—why—” Hank sputtered.

“Freedom of movement,” Erik murmured, “very important,” and then he surged up and kissed him again. Hank’s trembling hands ( _claws_ ) came around Erik’s body, gripping that narrow waist, cradling him close with a paw on his shoulderblade, and Hank was at once consumed with heat and terribly aware how fragile Erik’s human skin was. Erik was powerful—Erik could crush this plane around them and kill them all in a heartbeat—but one wrong move and Hank could open up that pale, scarred skin, spill blood everywhere, one wrong move and Erik could be gasping, clutching his throat and bleeding out on the floor.

Fuck, that shouldn’t be that hot.

But Erik was putting his _life_ in Hank’s hands. But Erik was naked in front of him, and yet Hank was the one who felt flayed-open, vulnerable and ripe for the taking. But Erik—but _Erik_ —Erik was right there, and he ran his nails through the fur on the back of Hank’s head, scraping, sending streaks of heat down his skin where he touched, and Hank wanted—he _wanted_ —

“What do you want?” Hank whispered, his voice tremulous.

“I want to prove you _wrong_ ,” Erik said, his voice twisting into a snarl at the end of his sentence, and he kissed Hank silent again, his fingers neatly sliding down Hank’s zipper, yanking open the flight suit that he had so painstakingly modified to cover his new limbs, baring the compression garment he had made himself out of a similar material to the flight suits to Erik’s curious eyes. He shoved Hank’s sleeves off his arms, and Hank desperately peeled his legs out of the suit—he wanted to _touch_ , to feel all of Erik’s pale, marred, beautiful skin pressed against his own, but the fur got in the way, the fur made his touch strange and inexplicable. Erik seemed to recognize that Hank was having trouble; he kissed him until every thought had utterly fled Hank’s head.

Hank gripped Erik’s ass helplessly, torn away in the tide, and suddenly Erik’s bare legs were wrapped around Hank’s waist; Hank picked him up and slammed him against the wall of the plane, surprising a rough moan out of Erik. “Yesss,” Erik hissed, “yes, come on, Hank, fuck me, take me, work all your frustrations out on me—you know you want to—”

Hank snarled in his face and, for the first time, initiated a kiss—if it could be called that—it felt more like he was mauling Erik, who wrenched his mouth away and tipped his head back against the wall and sighed as Hank went to work on his neck, leaving hickies under where the flight suit would cover, trailing a line of dark bruises over Erik’s collarbone and shoulder.

Erik got a fist in the hair in the back of his head and tugged, dragging Hank’s head down—Hank let go of him—Erik slipped but he dragged Hank down with him, hitting his head hard on the floor of the plane’s bathroom, but not even seeming to have noticed. Instead, he was focused entirely on Hank kneeling between his spread thighs. He thrust his hips up suggestively, but Hank’s gaze was fixed at his hip, at the jut of bone there and near-translucent skin stretched over it, and he couldn’t command his eyes to go any lower. “Well?” Erik demanded. “You don’t want to fuck me till I’m screaming and the whole plane wakes up—?”

God. Hank’s mouth went dry, but he managed to shake his head. “I’m not—” he stuttered. “I never—”

“Oh,” Erik said, his voice blank and impenetrable. Hank felt himself flush red. Erik’s fingers traveled downward, sweeping down from his belly button to his pubis, and Hank felt his eyes follow the motion almost against his will; he could smell Erik’s arousal—he could see the slick coating Erik’s fingers as he massaged his vulva, as wetness pearled on his skin. Hank felt saliva flood his mouth. God, he wanted to get his mouth on Erik’s cunt, to—to eat him out, to lick at the core of him until, like he’d said, he was screaming and thrashing and Charles was banging on the door demanding to know if they were all right. Erik slipped the tip of one finger into himself, just the one, and said, “That’s all right. I’ll just have to get you on your back instead.”

And then he was sitting up and pushing Hank backward, and Hank went, bewildered, horribly aroused, even though Erik was so much weaker than him. Erik kissed him again, which efficiently killed most of his objections. He ran his hands down Hank's sides, smoothing down the fur, and moaned into his mouth, which caused Hank to compulsively grip him closer. Then Erik broke away and hissed, "Watch this," and Hank watched, helplessly, as Erik settled between his legs and leaned down and--oh god. Oh god.

Erik's tongue dragged over the seam of him, from back to front, and when Erik reached the crest of his cunt he sucked his clit into his mouth and Hank screamed and shoved a fist into his mouth to try and muffle the sound. "Shhh," Erik coaxed, rubbing his thumb in slow, small circles on the folds of Hank's cunt, pressing gently, so gently, into his body. Hank dizzily remembered Erik sliding the tip of his finger in himself and realized that Erik must _like_ sex as slow torture. "I'm just getting started." And then he _licked_ into him, his thumb now pressing firmly against Hank's clit, and Hank's left thigh spasmed under Erik's sure, steady hand.

Erik devoted himself to eating Hank out with the same kind of intensity Hank had seen him use to try and move a satellite dish, his lips and tongue moving over Hank's most sensitive parts, sucking and kissing and licking, oh god, Hank glanced down but the contrast of blue hair against Erik's pale skin was too much so he stared at the light set into the ceiling of the plane's bathroom instead, trying desperately to calculate the resistance of the circuit when Erik was driving him utterly, totally mad, and not in the way he normally did. "Isn't this good, Hank?" Erik crooned. "Isn't this better?" He punctuated his questions by laving Hank with his tongue, by moaning into his cunt and letting his breath curl the fur there, by spearing his tongue deep inside Hank and making him writhe. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Erik hissed. He licked Hank’s slick off his lips. “For no one to ever mistake you for a woman again?”

“Not like this!” Hank snapped. “I just wanted—I _wanted_ —”

“—to be normal,” Erik finished, and bit down on the meat of Hank’s thigh reprovingly. “When will you learn, Hank? Your body knows it better than you do. We’re none of us _normal_. And we shouldn’t have to pretend to be.”

“Easy for you,” Hank sobbed.

“No,” Erik said, “it’s not.” He made a low, bitten-off sound—the first sense Hank had had all encounter that he wasn’t entirely in control of himself--and Hank glanced down to see, oh Christ, oh Lord, that Erik had two fingers inside of himself. He was _so_ wet, the gleam of the industrial lighting of the bathroom bouncing off of the slick coating his fingers, an absolutely _obscene_ sound being made as he worked himself, as he rocked back and forth on his fingers, a movement which drove his face deeper into Hank's pussy. He pinched Hank’s clit gently, just a breath of pressure, and Hank shouted. In his romance novels, he'd read about this sensation as floating higher, higher, but actually it felt like he was being dragged lower, into his body, he'd tried for his whole life to escape the horror of being a _body_ , his feet and his breasts and his fucking genitalia, but Erik made it a warm and welcoming place for him, Erik made him want to live there forever, languish in the heat and the sensation and the pleasure.

Erik held his hips down and licked into the wet heat of him until he was shaking, until a heretofore unknown sensation was rolling up his spine, until Hank's thighs seized around Erik's head as he tried to drive his heels into Erik's upper back, dragging him closer, closer. Just before the crest of his pleasure, Erik wrapped his tongue back around his clit, and Hank opened his mouth in a soundless scream as he came, a glorious relief that lasted only a moment but which felt like he could live in it forever.

Erik drew away from him, slowly, his light fractured-glass eyes hooded, his fingers still rubbing deeply into his cunt. Hank watched, transfixed, as Erik brought himself off, rocking back and forth on his fingers, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath even, if a little fast, until he sighed and all the tension went out of him. His eyes when he opened them were dark as leaded glass and cattishly satisfied.

Hank—couldn’t get up from the floor. He panted, breathlessly, abruptly knocked loose from his body, as Erik tipped his head back, groped for the sink, and used it to lever himself to a standing position. Erik splashed water on his face, dried himself off roughly with a small rough towel until his face and ears were ruddy. When he looked back at Hank, the dark-eyed sex god that had pushed him to the floor and brought him to his first orgasm was gone. It was just Erik again, even though he was standing bare but for the bandages binding his chest; he stepped disinterestedly over Hank's body and retrieved his flight suit, and began zipping himself back into it. "What—" Hank said, finding his voice again. "Why? What? _Why?”_

“I meant what I said, you know,” Erik said. He swept his hair out of his face, neatened the part of his hair without looking in the mirror. 

“Erik, we have to talk about this,” Hank said. “Erik, you just—you just— _in the airplane bathroom_ —"

“You’ve never looked better.” With a swift, sharp motion, looking as untouched and unfucked as he had when he’d stepped into the bathroom, Erik slid the door open a crack and slipped outside, closing it securely before anyone could see the mess he’d made of Hank on the bathroom floor. Hank trudged to his knees, and picked up his own flight suit where it was lying discarded and solemn.

He tried to dab at the slick caught in the hair on his thighs with toilet paper, found that he desperately wanted a shower, pulled the flight suit slowly over his bulging calves and biceps and zipped it up. He sat on the floor for a little while, regulating his breathing, wondering if there was any truth to the old Athenian rumor that orgasm before athletics dulled the mind and body, thinking with a mad little giggle that if anyone died that day he could always blame Erik for fucking him senseless in the bathroom before the fight. He hoisted himself to his feet and washed his hands and returned to the pilot’s seat.

He didn’t look in the mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> Hank’s transformation into Beast is a kind of coming-out, isn’t it? And then Erik comes out to him. [jumps through hoops to post this today] Title from Ocean Vuong's "A Little Closer to the Edge."
> 
> DO NOT BIND WITH ACE BANDAGES. You can do yourself serious harm. I figure that Erik, who has not always had a lot of resources while killing Nazis throughout Europe, doesn’t much care, and this is a different time with a different scientific understanding of binding besides, but his behavior is not meant to be emulated.
> 
> What, to a man, is a [tumblr](https://midrashic.tumblr.com/)? Also, come chat us up on the [X-Men X-traordinaire (18+)](https://discord.gg/7HyhZ5R) Discord server!
> 
> My comment policy boils down to one thing: **Please comment.** You. Yes, you in particular. If you would like examples, a simple heart emoji or “+kudos” now that the multiple kudos function has been disabled are hugely appreciated. Your comment does not have to be profound. Your comment does not have to be long. If all you have the energy for is the heart emoji, i appreciate that much more than a kudos or a bookmark. A kudos is not interchangeable with a short comment that says “great job!” or something similar. I always respond to comments. Comments on old works are just as valuable, maybe even more so, than comments on new works. If you feel like your comments mean less than those from people I regularly interact with, you’re wrong; comments mean more from a stranger. I would prefer a “please update” to no comment. I would prefer a short comment to no comment. I would prefer criticism to no comment. Comments keep writers writing and in the fandoms you love. **Please comment.**


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